


up in our bedroom after the war

by tree



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re whole and they’re safe and they will go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up in our bedroom after the war

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/gifts).



> this was supposed to be a yuletide fic for alyse many moons ago, until i discovered that what i'd written bore too much of a resemblance to one of her own fics to make a decent gift. recently, i took it out, brushed it off, and presented it as part of fandom_stocking.

In the end it's all oddly anti-climactic. An apocalypse, only not theirs, not humanity's. 

Abby is astonished at DayStar's deadly speed. It's an invisible river washing over the vamps and leaving nothing but dust to mark its passage. Vamps are running, screaming, jumping over railings in their terror, in pathetic attempts to escape. Abby thinks she should probably feel pride or at least relief that they've done it, finally: they've perfected the weapon that will keep them all safe. What she feels is simply numbness.

Shouldering her gear, she steps over a mound of what used to be vampire and makes her way downstairs to find King. He meets her at the bottom of the stairs. "Blade?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see." 

The rising sun sets the scattered, broken glass alight. Before them is the entire unobstructed city and at their feet the bodies of Blade and Drake. Both are dead.

Then, in the stillness, they hear it. Sirens. King looks at her, tensed for flight, and then back the way they came. "Where's Zoe?"

"I'll get her."

"I'll get us a ride."

They separate and Abby sprints to Zoe's hiding place. The little girl is exactly where she left her, face pale, eyes enormous and glassy. Shock. Abby lifts her, and Zoe clings like a warm little barnacle, her breaths coming fast and short. "It's okay, sweetie," Abby murmurs. "We're going home now."

She meets King back in the foyer and they move in unison to the stairs. "What's that?" She glances at the duffel in his hand.

"Supplies," he says. "Courtesy of Danica, may the bitch roast in hell."

They make it to the basement garage and King pulls out a set of keys.

"Those courtesy of Danica, too?" Abby asks.

"Actually I think these are Asher's. But they were always a two-for-one deal." He points the keys in an arc around the garage and eventually a set of headlights flashes on a sleek black 4WD.

Reluctant to let Zoe go, Abby keeps her on her lap and buckles the seatbelt around both of them. King dumps the duffel in the back. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

  

  

Zoe falls asleep quickly on the silent drive. Abby strokes her hair, grateful to be able to put off the awful inevitable conversation for a little longer. She's sure that Zoe already knows that her mother is dead. But there's a desolate chasm of difference between that knowledge and its confirmation. An orphan herself, now, Abby knows it all too well.

  

  

The Honeycomb Hideout looks as it always has and it's easy to pretend everything is the same. 

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig," King says quietly, and gives Abby a tired smile as he lifts Zoe from the car. He cradles the little girl so gently — almost reverently — that Abby's surprised. She's never known him to be particularly affectionate with her before.

"I'll take her upstairs," he says and Abby nods. It takes her a few seconds to get out of the car and, when she does, the absence of Zoe's weight makes her feel light, as if she could float away. For a moment she wishes that she could. Just float up into this clear, bright new morning, away from the stink of blood and the bodies of her friends. Float away and never come back. Instead, she grabs the duffel from the back seat and follows King into the house.

  

  

They end up in Abby's room. It has the largest bed and she doesn't want to leave Zoe to wake up alone. If she's honest, she doesn't want to wake up alone either. King places the still-sleeping girl on the side of the bed furthest from the door. He sways a little on his feet and Abby realises how hard he's clinging to the edge of his strength.

"Sit down," she tells him. "I'll be right back."

He obeys without a word. It's so unlike him that it's unsettling. 

Abby takes the long way to the kitchen to avoid what she and Blade hadn't been able to clean up the night before. There are bottles of water, juice and Gatorade, as well as protein bars in the fridge. She grabs some of each, then heads to the infirmary for first aid supplies. As an afterthought, she picks up some sweats from King's room. His clothes are bloodied and stink of sweat, fear, and the rancid ash of dead vampires. Then again, so do hers.

When she returns, he's sitting on the bed, slumped over away from his injured side. She passes him the clothes and he gives her an amused look.

"Just can't keep your hands off my unmentionables, can you?"

She hands him a bottle of Gatorade. "Drink this. You've lost a lot of fluids."

He swallows a mouthful and grimaces. "This stuff always tastes like piss.”

Abby unwraps one of the protein bars and sits cross-legged on the floor. "I don't want to know how you know that."

Sounds of the city are starting to filter in from outside. Even this far out on the docks, car horns, sirens, and construction noises echo in and combine with the more immediate sounds of boats and the slap of water against the pylons. Zoe sleeps on, undisturbed by anything happening outside or in the room. A protective mechanism, Abby thinks. When you're asleep you can't feel the world ending or your heart breaking.

King gulps the last of the Gatorade noisily. "Ugh. God that's nasty."

"At least it's not blood," Abby says and instantly wishes she could snatch it back.

They lock eyes and then King merely shrugs and says, "Yeah."

Another silence falls. Abby forces herself to eat more of the protein bar and sip some water. King rouses himself and says he's going to take a shower, asks if she wants to help.

"Pass," she says. "But leave your shirt off. I want to take a look at those wounds."

"First my clothes, now my body. You just can't control yourself, woman." He gets up stiffly and shuffles out the door, slightly hunched, like an old man.

She stares at the empty doorway for a moment after he leaves, trying not to think about what it must have been like for him as Danica's prisoner again. He's never been overly forthcoming about what it was like the first time, and she's never pushed. Most of what she's gathered has been from throwaway comments and a joke here and there. But she has eyes and instincts and they both tell her that for King it must have been another kind of hell.

On the bed, Zoe's breathing is slow and even. It's a queen size, but all three of them won't fit, so Abby makes a nest on the floor for herself with some extra pillows and a blanket. There's no way she's letting King sleep anywhere other than a bed with his injuries. 

It's maybe half an hour later when he comes back with damp hair and wearing clean sweatpants. There are new bruises forming to mingle with the old ones on his chest. Underneath the bruising and cuts, his face is pale and exhausted, but he smiles and says, "I'm all yours."

Her heart gives a little bump and she ignores in, focusing instead on his wounds. On closer examination, he's not as bad off as he looks. Most of the damage is superficial, although she knows it hurts like hell. The synthetic protein in his chest wound seems to have held up well through whatever they did to him. In the end all she does is secure some clean gauze over it and apply a few butterfly bandages to his face.

She steps back and he affects a mock-stoic expression. "Give it to me straight, Doc. I can take it."

"I think you'll live," she says dryly, inwardly heartened at the reappearance of his customary humour. 

She grabs her own things for a shower and is almost out the door when he says her name. She turns and he looks at her with those brown eyes and says, "Thank you. For coming for me."

Glib, sarcastic King is annoying but usual. Quiet, solemn King makes her uncomfortable. She wants to brush it off, say, "Did you think I'd just leave you there, you idiot?" But her mouth won't move. So instead she just nods and leaves.

  

  

Under a spray of water as hot as she can stand, Abby scrubs at herself vigorously. Tomorrow her arms and legs will be covered in bruises but at least none of the blood is hers. It's the ash, though, that has her lathering for a third time. All that death in the air, a visible plague. It has a faintly greasy texture that lets it cling to skin, clothes and hair. By the time she gets out of the shower, her fingers and toes have begun to prune. 

Whether it's real or imagined, she feels the grit of ash in her mouth and it fills her with horror. So she brushes her teeth with too much force, almost choking as she scrubs her tongue. Mouthwash burns at all the raw places and makes her eyes water. She wonders if she breathed any of it in, imagines it coating her trachea and lungs, and starts to panic and shake.

Her stomach roils and she wrenches the toilet seat up to vomit. Water, snot and bile drip from her face as she takes deep, heaving breaths. After a few minutes, she blows her nose and wipes her mouth, steadier. Resolute, she forces herself to think of nothing beyond the mechanics of dressing.

  

  

The shock of cool air in the hallway after the steam of the bathroom brings out gooseflesh on her skin. As she nears the door to her room she hears voices and realises Zoe must be awake. Dread slams into her and for a moment she wants to run. She's not ready to deal with the little girl's grief. She's not ready to deal with her own. But she forces herself to move forward, to face it, just as she always has. Her feet are silent on the wooden floor and she stops just before the door.

"What if the Gnome King comes back again?" Zoe's voice is even smaller and softer than usual.

"He's not coming back, honey," King says. "He's gone for good."

"But what if he does?" Zoe's voice hitches up, insistent. She's been through enough in her short life to know that it's dangerous to take anything as sure.

Abby moves into the doorway, then, letting herself be seen.

King reaches out a hand to stroke the little girl's hair. "Then he'll have to get through me first."

Zoe looks less than reassured.

"Point taken," King says and turns to the doorway. "But after me, he'll have to get through Abby."

Zoe regards him seriously before turning her gaze on Abby. For a second Abby feels the force of both their gazes on her, the two most important people in the world to her now. Then Zoe nods and lies down again in a little ball. King pulls the blanket up over her, his palm smoothing down her back in long strokes. His hands look giant against Zoe's tiny form.

Abby tries to swallow past the ache in her throat.

A couple of protein bar wrappers sit on the dresser, along with a second empty bottle of Gatorade. Despite King's obvious distaste, he's smart enough to know that his body needs fuel. And rest. They both do. But Abby's stomach is still raw, so she opts for rest first.

Sinking down onto the nest of bedding she made for herself, she sees King watching her, even as he continues to stroke Zoe's back. He raises an eyebrow and nods meaningfully at the bed.

"You take it," she says quietly. "I'm not hurt."

That he doesn't protest reveals just how much pain he's in. For a while the only sounds in the room are soft, homey. King's hand on Zoe's back, Abby braiding her wet hair. Then, eventually, even those are silent and the room is filled only with breathing.

"Did Zoe ask about—" Abby begins, but finds she can't finish the sentence.

"Her mom? No." King shakes his head and looks down at the sleeping child, his expression full of compassion. "I think she knows. She's just not ready to deal with it yet."

Abby understands completely and for a moment feels a sharp pang of longing to feel the comfort of the warm sweep of his hand on her own back. Instead she returns to the practical. "We should get some sleep."

He nods and shifts to the other side of the bed, laying himself down gingerly. There probably isn't any position that's comfortable for him, she realises, and wishes they had stronger pain relief than aspirin. Treating his wound from Drake had used up their supply of the good stuff.

"Do you need anything?" she whispers.

"Bottle of tequila," he whispers back.

She lies down and closes her eyes, feeling exhaustion weight her muscles. It's the first time she's been horizontal in more than 36 hours and it's unimaginably good, even on the floor. She longs to be like Zoe, caught in the oblivion of sleep. Her brain, though, is persistent.

Within minutes she finds herself wide-eyed, examining the room as though she's never seen it before. She's lived here for almost three years, but it looks barely inhabited. The curtains block out much of the morning sunlight, but the dim light in the room is still enough to see by. The ceiling is slightly pitted, the white paint cracked and peeling in places, and she stares at it, almost hoping the answers to all her questions will just appear on it, like magic.

Only Abby doesn't believe in magic.

She feels shell-shocked, as though she's coming out of a stupor too slowly. She's always been prepared for the worst, expected it, fought it, and now it's come and, it seems, gone. Her friends, her father, Blade, all dead. But DayStar is a success. Caulder will be able to synthesise more and finally they'll have a powerful weapon against the vampires.

What will become of her? She's a warrior; it's all she knows how to be. She scraped through high school just enough to graduate and then she aimed herself like one of her arrows toward what she saw as her destiny, her mission. She's 22 and has no work experience, no skills beyond hand-to-hand combat and expertise with a range of firearms, specialising in the bow.

She gives a soft snort at the thought of putting that on her resume. She was the youngest of them all, the one with the most to prove and the least to lose. And now she's all that's left. 

What did she want from life before she learned about her father and that knowledge overshadowed everything else in her mind? Who was she before she was Whistler's daughter?

There's a rustling from the bed and then a large shape eases down beside her.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" she asks King.

"Why aren't you?"

"I can't stop thinking."

"Move over," he whispers, and hisses as he lies down beside her. His body is large and warm in the dimness, smelling faintly of blood and antiseptic. This is not an unfamiliar position for them, although they haven't spent many nights together. But she's used to his body enough now that she doesn't feel crowded. Instead, she feels unaccountably safe, and grateful that he's here with her.

"You thinking about Zoe?" He's stretched out on his left side, right arm lightly resting just underneath the wound Drake made in his chest. Abby has a sudden urge to place her palm across where she knows the bandage is and feel the solidity of his flesh. 

"Yes. And other things. I don't know how to take care of a child," she confesses.

"Sure you do. You take care of me."

She can't help but smile at him then. "It's not really the same thing, you know."

"Sommerfield wouldn't have named you legal guardian if she didn't believe you were the right person to care for her daughter."

Abby nods and sighs. "I know. But I can't help thinking that if maybe things were different, she would have chosen someone else. Maybe the only reason I was the right person was because of how things were. If she'd known DayStar would succeed, maybe she'd have chosen differently." She glances back up at the bed, where Zoe is still a small mound under the blanket.

"I think you're selling yourself short, Abby. And I think even if Sommerfield had known, she would've made the same choice, because you're kind and strong and you'll protect that little girl with your own life if you have to. But also because—" he pauses and runs his hand across her shoulder "—you know what it's like to be alone, too."

It's easy to forget that underneath the glibness and the wit there are depths to Hannibal King that he rarely shows to anyone. He so often takes her by surprise this way.

King has an offhand sort of tenderness that makes it frighteningly easy for her to accept until it's too late to put up any sort of defence. She's not even sure she wants to defend herself against it anymore. For the first time she can remember, her life has no compass. It would be so easy to sway in his direction. To let this thing between them become whatever it could be.

When she and Blade had arrived back at the docks, King’s absence had sliced through her like a cold knife. That fear was quickly subsumed by the pain and rage of Sommerfield's death, but now she flashes back to it, the desolation she'd felt when she thought he was dead. The horror when she realised he'd been taken.

They could have killed him easily, she knew. And he wasn't even bait, that was Zoe. Taking him was just to satisfy some sick whim of Danica's, some need she had to destroy him utterly.

Even after that, he came up fighting. Even now his eyes are warm and kind. Abby’s throat tightens against the ache that just won’t ease. Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten what it was they were really fighting for, why they fought so hard and why so many died. Looking in King’s eyes now, she remembers. It’s not just life — though that’s precious enough — it’s _living_. It’s the simplicity of a quiet morning with what’s left of her makeshift family. It’s the promise of a future with the little girl asleep on the bed and this man lying next to her, breathing in the same rhythm. It’s the possibility that that future won’t be a short, desperate fight to keep themselves alive.

When the tears finally come, they’re not from fear or pain, but a bewildered sort of happiness. King doesn’t ask her why she’s crying, or say anything at all, just puts his arm around her and strokes her wet hair. Abby presses her face against his warm shoulder and for once allows herself to be cared for, to be soothed. Everyone left in the world she loves is in this room with her right now. They’re whole and they’re safe and they will go on.

  

  

The first time Abby tells Hannibal King she loves him, she’s still crying. He just says, "I know,” in his infuriating way. She wants to be mad but she starts laughing, and when she punches his good shoulder it's half-hearted.

King grins and grabs her hand, twining their fingers together and rubbing his thumb against her skin. It's sweet and somehow more intimate than the handful of times they've had sex. "I love you too, Abigail Whistler," he says softly, with that gentle look in his eyes that makes her bones feel like liquid. Then he kisses the tip of her nose and settles his head on her pillow. "Now get some sleep."

As her eyes drift closed, Abby decides to let him get away with ordering her around. Just this once.

  

  

> All the blood and the treasure and the losing it all   
> the time that we wasted and the place where we fall   
> will we wake in the morning and know what it was for   
> up in our bedroom after the war?   
> —Stars, The Beginning After the End


End file.
